Don began to smile. “The kind we can solve without leaving the office? Good. Who’s the target?”
“Fionna Kenmare.”
“Fionna Kenmare? Their lead singer? Isn’t she the one with the green hair?”
“I guess.” Sherry shrugged. “I don’t keep up with that world much.”
“What kind of attacks are we talking about here?”
“Mysterious illnesses, disembodied voices, and cuts appearing on her arms when there’s no one around.”
“All of which could be staged for publicity,” the secretary said with a frown. “The Secret Service is taking it seriously, though?”
“The Brits are,” Sherry said through tight lips. “They sent someone to check it out, and that person is out of the running with a mental breakdown. Because of that, they’re sending along an agent of their own to watch over Ms. Kenmare while she’s on tour.”
“ . . . And if there’s one of theirs tagging along, there has to be one of ours tagging along as well, right?”
“You got it in one.” The department head grimaced. “Run a quick check for me, will you? Have we got anyone in New Orleans, or do we have to air-drop someone in?”
“I think . . . Let me check.”
The secretary ran his finger quickly through the Rolodex on his desk.
“Here we go . . . Oh boy!” Don said, dismayed.
“What is it?” Sherry was suddenly concerned by the change in his voice.
“If you’re ready for this, our agent in the New Orleans area is none other than one Beauray Boudreau.”
“Beauray . . . Oh God! You mean Boo-Boo?”
Chapter 2
“Mayfield!” Ringwall shouted.
Elizabeth put down her copy of Paranormal magazine. “Sir?” she said, springing to her feet. Director Ringwall peered out of his office at her, his plump-cheeked face glowing pink. He was beaming.
“In here, please, Mayfield,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she said, keenly aware of the curious glances shot her way by the other agents of the Office of Paranormal Sightings Investigation branch of MI-5 as she scurried in.
Ringwall gestured to her to shut the door. Elizabeth stood, breathless, on the threadbare rag rug in front of his desk. What was so exciting that it could make her notoriously moody boss smile?
“Mayfield, I don’t have time to make this long. Have you heard of Fionna Kenmare?” Ringwall asked, snatching up a sheet of fax paper from his desk.
“Er, yes, sir.” Elizabeth immediately drew a mental picture of a skinny woman with weirdly cut hair and Halloween makeup. She racked her brain for specific details. “Irish. Sings what she calls acid folk rock. Something to do with magic, sir.”
“That’s right, magic,” Ringwall said, with savage delight. “Puts it right into our field, doesn’t it? I’ve got an assignment for you. We got a call, from, er . . . Upstairs. I don’t need to tell you how far Upstairs. Truth is,” he said, leaning over the desktop toward her and lowering his voice, “I can’t. I don’t know. But this is a very important mission. There is reason to suspect that this Fionna Kenmare is under some kind of psychic or magical attack. She’s reported seeing bleeding cuts appear on her skin when there’s nothing sharp nearby. Suffers mysterious illnesses. Hears voices. In other words, the lot, and all gloriously unproven.”
Elizabeth made a face. “The cuts could be self-inflicted, sir. As for the rest . . . it’d make good publicity, wouldn’t it?”
“Right you are,” Ringwall said, with a curt nod. “It’s certain to be nothing; it always is, but because it might have to do with the paranormal, it’s us instead of the fancy boys with their big budgets and their Porsche automobiles. But not this time.”
OOPSI took precedence over the other branches of British Intelligence when the mission had to do with its special field of expertise, although that garnered them no extra respect from the other agents. Paranormal investigation was still regarded as a bit of a joke. They took all the calls for the hauntings at stately houses, apparitions in churchyards, bogeys at Wookey Hole, and so on. The other agents called them the “Ghostbusters,” but not with the kind of affection that meant they respected the department. Elizabeth took the slight personally, although she tried not to.
“What do you need me to do, sir?” Elizabeth asked, starting to take fire with the idea of putting a finger in the eye of the high-profile boys. They’d be in the headlines for a change.
Ringwall ran a finger down the fax. “Kenmare and her group are about to embark on a tour of the United States, starting in New Orleans. I need you to keep close tabs on her, at all times, from the moment she touches down in Heathrow, until she’s safely on her way back to Ireland after the tour is over. How can I say this without getting the gender-equity people down my back? I want a female agent on this case, because you have to be able to go anywhere she does, any time. A male agent can’t barge into the Ladies’, no matter what credentials he’s carrying. Do you follow me? And if the attacks should prove to be coming from a supernatural agency, then it’s a cockadoodle for us. And for you.”
“But why us?” Elizabeth asked, not wanting to have this fabulous plum snatched away from her, but at all costs she must be professional about it. “Surely she’s an Irish citizen.”
Ringwall pushed a fingertip toward Heaven. “Ours is not to question Upstairs, Mayfield.”
“No, sir,” Elizabeth said, letting her mouth snap shut on her next question. She was agog with excitement. “Please go on.”
“The whole thing is absolutely hush-hush. We are not to appear to be working in this matter. Only Kenmare and her immediate intimates are to know the British government is involved. You’ll be working with an American agent.” When Elizabeth inadvertantly made a face, Ringwall actually looked sympathetic. “Sorry, lass. The Yanks insisted on having a finger in the pie. But it’s your pie. You decide how far they can push it in.”
“Yes, sir!” Elizabeth said. Her pie! How marvelous that sounded. Well, she’d be very careful about anyone shoving in an unwanted digit. Ringwall stood up and extended a hand.
“Your briefing is being prepared now. I’ll have the courier meet you at your flat to deliver it. Jump to it! You’ve got two hours to pack and get to the airport. You’ll receive your ticket at the information desk.” He picked up the telephone and dialed an internal number. “I’m calling a car for you from the motor pool. You’ll never get a cab at this hour of the afternoon.”
“No, sir,” Elizabeth breathed, watching with awe as he spoke tersely into the mouthpiece and replaced the receiver. “Thank you for giving me the chance, Mr. Ringwall.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well,” Ringwall said, nodding significantly and touching the side of his nose with his finger. “We’re all counting on you, Mayfield.” The director put out a hand to her. Elizabeth shook it energetically. “Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” Elizabeth said. Her head was quite spinning with joy, fear, and lists. She had so much to do. In only a little while she’d be on her way to her first international assignment! What should she pack? How much could she take with her?
Ringwall’s voice penetrated into the whirlwind of speculation bumping around in her mind. She looked back.
“And, Mayfield, don’t let the woman out of your sight, whatever you do. As I told you, this assignment comes from Upstairs.” He pointed toward the ceiling. Elizabeth nodded reverently.
“What’s all that about?” asked Michael Gamble, springing out from the wall behind Ringwall’s door the moment Elizabeth emerged. He was a fellow agent, nice to look at with his shock of dark hair a la Tom Cruise, but prone to popping up almost under one’s nose. He trailed behind her as she hurried to her desk.
“I’ve got to follow an Irish singer around and see if she’s being haunted by something from the unknown,” Elizabeth said, yanking open her desk drawer for her purse and briefcase. She might as well tell him; he’d uncover it soon enough from office gossip as soon as she was gone.
“What, not another alleged poltergeist?” Gamble laughed derisively. Elizabeth made a face at him. “Is her boyfriend beating her up, eh? Sifting through her purse while she sleeps?”
“Need to know, Gamble!” Ringwall’s voice roared from the office door.
“Yes, sir,” Gamble said, disengaging without a trace of guilt, and sliding smoothly back into his desk chair. “Bugger all. Good luck, Mayfield.”
“Thanks, mate,” Elizabeth said. With her possessions in her arms, she bumped her way out toward the lift to wait for the car.
Gamble’s attitude was similar to the others in the small branch, and to everyone else in British Intelligence. The government most fervently did not believe in magic. They felt there had to be a mundane explanation for anything that happened. Even that which was completely inexplicable was told off as having a cause that they were not yet able to ascertain, just that it wasn’t and never could be magic. Well, they were wrong.